аўторак, 28 ліпеня 2009 г.

A drunk told me this, late at a bus stop

Hogg, the name was, I believe. Couldn't try doing any more fills, got to clean the dream. And all the gas was spilling into the tank by the river. Clouds closing in, deep blue they were, and then black. Saw a cyclist, reading a crow on another bike. Harvester of sorrow. They played that one late into the morning, surrounded by grapes. Keeled over near Stoke on Trent, found an empty pack of recycled paper and did a dance. Shaved both armpits, grew a beard and walked to Walthamstow. Long way from Stokey. More bitten fingernails than I could throw my dice at. Florida next. What? No, not walking, kites is what they use nowadays. If I took half a pint of kite and threw petrol at it, I'd get 'ghite'. Know what that means? 'Trower'. Gilded like a stolen hand, flaing in the breeze, I walk down the lane. Little circuit, down the pasture, over the hill, through the canal and into the pond. Five pounds please. Can I pay later? No sorry we haven't got any more guidebooks so we're only profiting from ticket sales.

And then he walked off, into the night.

пятніца, 22 жніўня 2008 г.

Fay

There she stood, legs made of leg flesh. Blonde rivulets like dragon steam curling concentrically from the apex of her spliff nape. Gorgeous as milk and honey, sweet as smoken embers. My Fay, my pretty android woman.

We used to pour oil over each other's faces and lick up the residue with metal tongues. That was until she met him. HIM. The toast of circuit boards, the ruin of Microsoft.

Fay fay fay where are you now? 

панядзелак, 11 жніўня 2008 г.

Scholteim Reinbach I

Has the whole galaxy gone crazy?

Laughing, the totem pole carved by Injun Joes, fifteen of them dancing with their licorice black hair streaming back from steaming brows as they drink in the affluence of the stars. Boo de budlly! Scorched legs, crispin' up your thighs! No man! Yes man! Fifteen breaths full man! Woooah! His vessels dilating ,empty cells, the carved Bull on his side looking like he was made from wood but not on account of the moonshine. They're getting higher with their hatchets and peace pipes, pounding the ground with pleistocene jawbones wrenched from the silty pools of slushy ice.

DLDLDLDIDIDIDIDLDDLDLDLDLDIIIIDIIDLDLLDLDLDLDLDLDLDLDLDLDLDLDDIIDIDIDIDIDDLDLDLDLDIDDLDKDLDIDKDJDNDBHDUOHDUDUYDGHBDKHGDUTF1